


The Weight Upon My Shoulders

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:45:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a thing I wrote in CW class for this post: http://fayemonster.tumblr.com/post/61229804209/nono-its-okay-i-didnt-need-my-heart-anymore<br/>I hope people like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight Upon My Shoulders

           Now you're older and the weight upon your shoulder  
           makes the world a little colder  
           no more hiding in the old days  
                -Blue October, "Jump Rope"

          "I've been waiting for you for a while." I'd smiled at you, so long ago now, and you'd smiled back. You kissed me, very softly, and we had sat there, happy in each other's company. Those were the happy days, just after college, when it was the two of us against the world, and it seemed as if we were winning the battle. If only we had known.   
        We'd had Thomas, after a few years together. He was our pride and joy of our lives, always bringing me flowers plucked fresh from the yard when he was young. As he got older, he started to get up early to make coffee or even breakfast on the weekends. You taught him how to cook, and we always enjoyed his pancakes, topped with fresh fruit, or his famous onion burgers, which he made on special occasions. He played with the other kids on the playground, went out for the soccer team, went to martial arts classes to "learn how to defend you, Mommy!" He was the best son anyone could have ever had.   
        When I got sick, you went back to work to pay the bills. I had to quit teaching, because I was frequently too sick for it. Thomas was a teenager in high school, and he started bringing home a girl. Her name was Clara, I think. She was nice and beautiful, a good match for our handsome boy. When I had to shave my head, you held me in your arms, and told me that no matter what I looked like, you would always love me. I'd smiled back and said, "I love you more."  
        "I love you most." You kissed my bare scalp and helped me into bed, and we sat there again in companiable silence, almost like that first year we were married.   
        One night, you came home with a piece of paper in your hands, and sat me down with you on our ratty old couch. You sighed and looked down at the carpet, very evidently struggling with some dillemma. I rubbed your back and asked the inevitable question.   
        "What's wrong, sweetie?"  
        "I got a job offer today. It'll pay a lot, and I wanted to know what you'd think before I accepted."  
        I looked at you, happy but a little puzzled about what the issue was.   
        "That's good, isn't it? What's the job, exactly?"  
        You'd paused for a long, tense beat and took a deep breath, then broke the news.   
        "That's the thing. I was approached today by a major military contractor, who wants me to go and fight in the Middle East. In return, your bills get paid, and the family gets a pension. " You covered my hand with yours and stared at our intertwined fingers as if they held the answers to the universe. "It'll be dangerous, and I'll be away from home for a few years. Will you be okay with that? Taking care of Thomas by yourself, and me not home for so long?"  
        I looked at you, amused and a little reproachful. "Of course I will. Look at me, sweetie. Remember when we first met, when those bullies were attacking me, and you jumped in, just because you felt it was right? It's like that now. You are going off and putting yourself at risk to save me. Only this time, it's overseas. Are you sure that you're okay with it?"  
        You nodded, looking exhausted and relieved, more than I'd ever seen you before. We kissed, and gone to bed, though neither of us slept very well.   
        You prepared for training camp in the next few weeks, taking out a gym membership, working out a lot, and the day you left, I was too sick to go with you, so I sat in the front window and waved until you were out of sight.    
        Those first few weeks, you could send letters from boot camp, and you did. I got them about once a week, and eagerly read and re-read them. Thomas did a project on the military, in honor of you. He made the letters into a notebook and used them as part of it. You told us little things, like what pranks you and your buddies had played on each other and what antics the platoon's dog had gotten up to. The clear affection you had for them made me smile and banished the worries.   
        When you left for overseas, the letters stopped. I knew that it wasn't safe to try sending them so far, but I still regretted the loss of contact with you. I wished I could send you the news, that if the tests came out negative the next week, I would be in remission. I wished that you could be home to celebrate.  
        That next Wednesday came two pieces of news. One was my test results; they were negative. The other was in the form of a letter from the man who had employed you. It was negative, too.   
        I was well, but you came back in a black box with an American flag folded on top of it.   
        I couldn't speak at the memorial. I cried in the arms of your buddies, who had come home, and they told me that you had died to protect one of them, who was in the hospital now. He would live, they said. He wished that he could be here, but was still immobile.  
        This is the only thing I could do for you that would mean anything. I will lay this letter over your coffin, now, and watch others toss handfuls of dirt onto it. Eventually, it will decompose, but the words will remain, and so will l'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle, the love I have for you.                                                                    
        


End file.
